Crazy for Trying
by Sionnain
Summary: Jean and Emma get lost on the way to see a potential student. Includes the Phoenix, a few power ballads, and a lot of unsated tension. Jean GreyXEmma Frost.


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**Crazy for trying**

Outside the car window, the scenery was beginning to blur together in a whirl of dark trees and thick, gathering night. It looked like someone was bleeding dark paint onto one of those horrible wooded landscape paintings. That, and the entire situation was resembling a low-budged horror movie--_Where are we going on this twisty road with no shoulder, without a map?_

"We have a map," Jean snapped, her fingers curling around the steering wheel like she was trying to choke something. Or pretending that she was. Emma could see the whites of her knuckles. "The only thing we're lacking is a competent navigator."

"I told you to splurge and get the SUV with the GPS system," Emma said icily, turning huffily to stare out of the window. Refusing to allow Jean to see how she was clenching her teeth. "And I told you where to go, you just don't like listening to me."

Jean slanted a look at her. "I don't like you, period."

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Jean hit her hand on the steering wheel in a loud _smack_ of flesh-against-leather. "Look. Bickering is getting us nowhere."

"Nothing is getting us anywhere," Emma muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thus our predicament."

"Emma." Jean's voice was flat. "I'm tired, hungry, and we've been in this car together for way too long, and I just don't think it's anyone's fault the map was so messed up." Jean looked over at Emma, the sort of look on her face that dared the other woman to disagree. "Isn't. That. Right."

"That we've been in this car together too long? I certainly can't argue with that, darling."

"Really? Because usually--" Jean actually bit her lip. "Right. No bickering. Maybe we can...find a place to stop? To ask directions? Unless you want to switch on the light and read the map again."

"The map that helpfully stopped putting names on roads that weren't two letters? No, I don't think that's going to be of much help." Emma stretched, arching her back slightly, trying to uncurl muscles too long cramped by the drive in the compact rental car.

Jean was watching her. "That how you're going to get us directions? I think they give those away for free, Emma. Though I guess you're used to that."

Emma's eyes narrowed dangerously, but she took vicious sort of pleasure in the fact that Emma hadn't been the one to break the 'no-bickering' rule in under a nanosecond. "You just can't stop yourself, can you? Do you even have a filter that stops the things you think from pouring out of your mouth? That's so classless, darling."

"You're going to hear everything I think, anyway, because you have no morals. So what's the point in filtering?" Jean was driving too fast. The radio was on. It had been on the same station for nearly eighty miles, because it was the only one on which they could agree. Some retro station that played eighties music. They'd both been singing along to _Don't you...forget about me_ before they realized it, and while they'd stopped the singing, had left the station playing in the background.

Now, however, the signal had changed. There was the slow, lazy drawl of Patsy Cline, slightly tinged with the softest edge of static, overpowering the familiar eighties ballads and cheesy pop.

_Crazy...I'm crazy for feeling so lonely..._

Emma stared disdainfully down at the radio. She could see Jean from the corner of her eye. Jean was staring straight ahead at the road, with her head tilted just a little bit down. Like she was listening, too.

_I knew you'd love me as long as you wanted, and then someday you'd leave me for somebody new..._

"This song sucks," Jean said, her voice fireworks-sharp in the confines of the car, and Emma could feel the other woman slam her shields into place. Fast and hard and quick, and any thoughts Jean were having about the song were her own. Not that Emma wanted to know. Not that she would have looked.

_I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying--_

Emma's form shifted slowly. Living flesh trapped beneath cold, glittering stone. Her body relaxed beneath the weight of it, her breath easing out as the diamond settled around her skin.

"Yes." The word sounded strange, when she spoke. It was difficult to make her tongue work, to push the words out between hardened lips. Everything seemed muted and surreal, senses dulled even as the diamond gave everything a sharper, harsher look. Jean's eyes looked strange, like cut emeralds glittering in the last traces of evening light.

Neither one of them turned off the radio.

ooooooooOOOOooooooooo

They were lucky the gas station was open. It could have been closed. Then the two of them could have been stranded, and what would the two nice girls have done then? It was a good thing Mr. Amos C. Randall kept his store open past seven, I'll tell you what.

Emma, no longer sheathed in diamond, was standing near the door. Jean didn't think she wanted to get anywhere close to Mr. Amos C. Randall, who was continuing to lecture them about the fortuitousness of his store being open, in much simpler and colorful terms. Jean was listening politely and resisting the urge to sneak in the man's mind and find the directions they needed without him knowing she was doing it.

"Two pretty ladies, all I'm sayin'," Amos drawled, going behind the counter. He was wearing suspenders over a dirty white shirt, chewing something and spitting it into a cup. "Shouldn't get stranded."

_Did he get dressed as a stereotype on purpose this morning?_ Emma's drawl, in her mind. Her psychic voice reminded Jean of frozen things, that icy mist that blew off the tops of ice cubes in the freezer when you went to get some ice.

Jean covered her laugh with a cough. _Probably._

"'So, you're tryin' to get--where now?"

Jean explained it, again. She waited patiently through the inevitable, obvious statement--"Well, hell, you did get yo'selves good and lost, now, didn't cha?"--and watched as Amos drew a map on pad of paper next to the register. She nodded along very solemnly. She could _see_ where they were supposed to have turned, about thirty miles back. A twisted, gnarled tree with bare branches, reaching like fingers up into the sky, obscuring the sign.

"Thanks," Jean said, pocketing the map. She didn't need it. Amos had written his home number on the pad, "'case y'all get lost again." He was a good person. He didn't see many women like Emma and Jean, in his little store.

Not many people see women like us, ever, Jean thought, amused. Somewhere, in the back of the little store, she heard Emma laugh.

Jean went to peruse the snack items. It was only fair to buy something, for the directions. She figured Emma would be looking at bottled water, annoyed there was no Perrier or whatever overpriced water she preferred. Instead, Emma had a Sprite--a real one, too, with sugar and everything--and was looking for something in the candy aisle.

Jean grabbed a Cherry Coke--she'd be damned if she got a diet drink, when _Emma Frost_ was consuming a full-calorie original--and found her favorite candy in a box on the shelf. She went back to the counter without waiting for Emma. Emma could pay for her own snacks. That they would both get reimbursed by the Institute for travel expenses was negligible.

As she was counting out change, Emma appeared next to her at the counter, with her Sprite and a white box. Figured. She picked candy to match her outfit. God.

Amos laughed, good-naturedly. "Red-hots for the redhead, and mints for the blonde. Y'all work that out before you got here?" He had a kind smile. He was a good person, Amos C. Randall. Kept his store open late, just in case someone needed him. Jean felt guilty now, for laughing at Emma's barb.

_You are so predictable._

That thought wasn't Emma's, but it could have been. Jean stepped away and watched Emma pay for her snacks. All of her dollar bills were turned the same way, in her wallet.

_Learn that as a stripper?_

Jean didn't feel guilty about that. She wouldn't. Emma deserved all kinds of unkind remarks. Emma _was_ an unkind remark, if one could suddenly take shape and exist in human form.

_Yes, as a matter fact. The bank always appreciated it when I made my deposit. Of course, they were usually hundreds, not ones. I was very good. _"Thank you," Emma said, voice perfectly polite. She picked up her change and put it in the little cup, next to the register, that was supposed to help a kid in the hospital. There was handwritten note on the cup, with a picture of a boy bedridden and hooked up to various machines. Jean remembered reading, once, that those were frauds and the kids were never really sick.

It didn't stop her from feeling vaguely guilty that Emma had put her change in there, and Jean hadn't.

_She probably didn't want to keep it since Amos touched it._

Emma looked over her shoulder, mouth curving up into a slow smile._ Think what you want of me, Jean. You always do._

"Welcome. You and your friend be careful." Amos's cheerful voice was a welcome counterpoint to Emma's slick psychic drawl. Jean thanked him with an honest smile. She gave him a slight suggestion that maybe, just maybe, the spitting things into a cup and the dirty shirts weren't conducive to a love-life. He could do with that what he wanted. Emma was outside already. Jean followed her, went to the driver's side. Emma never offered to drive. Jean never asked.

Once they were back in the car, Jean opened her box of candy. Emma was eating hers. Junior Mints. Jean used to get those at the movies. Scott would get the popcorn. They went good together, Junior Mints and popcorn. Just like her and Scott. Except Jean couldn't remember the last time they'd been to the movies. Jean stared out of the window, her fingers curled around a few of her Red Hots. The taste of them were plastic and sudden-hot and they made her smile briefly. When was the last time she'd had one of these? It was like eating fire-

_Ashes in her mouth, the press of space, all darkness and no light, except when it was her, burning burning burning, and the terrible feeling of something too big to be contained, yearning to burst and break and **devour** and it bled out of her eyes and there were wings and she could **feel** them--_

"Can I have one of those?" Jean asked, her voice deceptively even. Her hands were shaking, on the wheel. She didn't want to look at Emma. To look at Emma would remind her of vast empty darkness broken by fire. She slowly held a hand out. If Emma said something, anything, Jean wasn't sure what she'd do.

_Nothing. You'll sit there and stew about it. But you won't do a thing._

Her voice, not Emma's. There was a press of something small in her palm. A piece of candy. Jean put it in her mouth, tasting the smooth burn of mint over the spicy cinnamon. It didn't help. She could still taste fire. Now it was just cold.

ooooooooOOOOooooooooo

They must have missed the turn again.

Emma was tired, and she was trying to rest her head against the window. The pane of class was cool against her cheek. She felt vaguely sick, from the candy and the sugary soda. "Maybe we should just go back to the highway," Emma suggested. She played with the radio. The country station was still there, but growing fainter. The eighties music was coming back on, in the background.

_Shot through the heart, and you're to blame, darling, you give love a bad name..._

Emma snorted. "They just don't make music like this anymore. No more power ballads."

"I didn't think you knew what that phrase even _meant_."

"Who was alive during the eighties and doesn't know about power ballads?"

Jean smiled slightly, the way she did when Emma amused her and she didn't want to really show it. "I guess you're right."

_An angel's smile, is what you sell--you promised me heaven and put me through hell._

Jean's box of Red Hots were half-eaten, shoved down in the console. Her soda was gone. Emma had shared her Junior Mints in companionable silence. She couldn't eat the whole box, anyway.

"You look nice today."

Emma glanced quickly to the side. Jean was staring at the road, mouth set in a tight, pressed line. She sounded angry. Emma shifted, a little, so she was turned in her seat, facing Jean. She didn't say anything.

"You wore your hair like that. On purpose."

Emma's hair was gathered in two low pigtails. She was wearing white capris, and low white strappy sandals. She had on a pale-blue polo shirt; tight, unbuttoned at the throat. Casual clothing suitable for wearing in the car. "What are you talking about?"

"I know why you did that. With the pigtails." Jean slowed the car. She was obviously frustrated. Either at Emma, or the drive. Emma was fairly sure it wouldn't matter, in the end. Jean would take it out on her, because Emma was _there_. Emma was immediate and available.

"Do you?" Emma put her right elbow on the windowsill, began tugging on one of her pigtails. Put her feet up, on the dashboard, knees slightly bent. She pulled her fingers through her hair, slowly, pulling strands of white between her fingers. Emma smiled.

_Passion's a prison you can't break free-_

"Of course. You're really not that hard to see through, Frost."

Emma laughed softly. "And you're really not that hard to provoke, Grey."

"It's _Grey-Summers_." Jean glared at her. "Put your feet down. That's dangerous. If we get in an accident, the airbag will break your legs."

Emma gave an exaggerated sigh, but she was smiling. Smirking, really. "Nice to know you care."

"I don't," Jean said, slowing the car. "I just don't want to get sued." There was no shoulder on the road. Jean had to park halfway on the grass when she pulled over. She opened the door and the lights flooded the interior of the car, abrupt and bright. The car made an annoyed dinging sound, since the engine was still running.

Emma winced, pale eyes sensitive to the change in light. She opened her own door, carefully stepping outside. The late-spring grass was a little damp against her toes. Emma wrinkled her nose in distaste. "What exactly are we doing? Are you going to flag a car down and ask for directions?" Her tone was derisive. "Why don't we just go back to the highway and find a hotel? We can call in the morning, explain what happened. We can't be the first people to get lost on this godforsaken road."

Jean was standing in the middle of the road, illuminated by the lights from the vehicle. She raised her hands, palm up. "I'm going to find where we were supposed to turn."

"Jean--" Emma stopped, swallowing her words. Jean's eyes were glowing. Emma was finding it hard to breathe. The air was still and quiet, but Jean's hair was whipping across her face like Medusa's serpents, twisting and undulating from an unnatural wind. Slowly, she began levitating, her chin tipped back. Staring up at the sky.

_yes home go home go up up up up home fire burn up burn up up _An echo, in Emma's mind. She wasn't sure if it were Jean, or something else. She watched as Jean rose higher into the night sky. A faint glow, soft like the words in Emma's mind. An ember, instead of a flame.

This time.

In the car, the radio played on.

_You're a loaded gun--There's nowhere to run--No one can save me, the damage is done--_

Emma scowled, and leaned down to turn off the radio. Jean was being dramatic enough for the both of them.

ooooooooOOOOooooooooo

The sky _tasted_.

Jean flew in the darkness, arms wide, feeling the press of air against her body. Chilled, cold wind. She was smiling. God, but it felt _good_. So good. To know she had control. Could do this. Use her powers, and not--dissolve. Not lose herself, not drown beneath all that power.

Also, it was damn nice to leave Emma down there. On the ground. Looking up, at her. Jean spared the other woman a glance.

_She looks so small. Insignificant. Yes._

Jean concentrated, vision sweeping out. Looking down at the roads, twisting and turning amongst the trees. Her fingertips were tingling. The rush of power was thick in her veins. It would be _so easy_--

_burn_

_And how long are you going to stay up there? _Emma's voice was like the mint candy, from earlier. Slick-white-cold in her brain. Like freezing rain.

Jean was breathing, tasting the air. She could hear, beneath Emma's drawl, a little bit of fear. Awe. It would be so very effortless to pull it all out. Drag every emotion, every hidden fear out of Emma's soul and throw it at her, push it down her throat and choke her with it, until she was gasping and couldn't breathe. Tendrils of power licked out, tempting. Teasing.

_take punish burn_

_Jean, if you don't get down here, I'm going to start driving. And you can bloody well fly back to Xavier's._

Jean blinked. The power receded like waves pulling back into the sea. Jean bowed her head, feeling the silky slide of the night air caress her in the dark. Like a lover. She levitated back down, to the firm feel of the ground beneath her feet. Emma was sitting in the car again. Jean made the doors open with a thought. She slid back into the car, the door closing effortlessly behind her. She looked at Emma.

"About time," Emma said coolly. She was examining her nails. "Did you find anything out on your little trip up until the sky, or are we doomed to wander forever in search of some mythical street that doesn't exist?"

Jean stared at her. The power she'd been trying so hard to leash leaked out, goaded by Emma's drawling sarcasm and that faint sneer on her face, like Jean had _failed_ and like she was _worthless_ and couldn't find a _goddamned street--_

Jean reached forward, pushing Emma back hard against the door. "Shut up. Just shut up. I've had it with you, and I've had it with your whining, and I just want you to _shut up_--" Jean pressed her mouth to Emma's. Emma's mouth was soft and cool beneath Jean's. Jean could feel the terrible weight of it, her power, singeing along her skin and dancing like sparks. _Can't you just shut up?_

Emma's fingers touched Jean's neck. The touch was shivery-good, like the first touch of cold water against flushed and heated skin in the summer. Like the soothing, sudden relief of an air conditioner in a hot and stuffy room. Relief, but with that sharp _bite_ of pain at the very first second, before your body adjusted to the cold. Jean held onto that, the pain, and let it simmer in her blood. Nothing about Emma was supposed to be a relief.

Jean yanked at the hem of Emma's shirt, sliding her hands up underneath. Emma's skin was cool to the touch.

You're burning up, Emma said, and that little bit of worry in her voice--_not worry, it's fear_--pushed Jean further, made her laugh against Emma's mouth. Jean pulled back, a little, licking softly at Emma's lips. Her fingers moved beneath the bra, a shade harder than Emma liked.

Emma twisted, hissing, her hands coming up and resting on Jean's shoulders. "This is not acceptable--"

Jean had her hand beneath Emma's bra. "I don't care," she breathed, "What you think is acceptable or not."

Emma's face was a study in conflict, expression torn between desire and anger. Jean knew the feeling. She kissed her again, hard and demanding, and her hand slid down and pressed between Emma's legs.

_Whore_, Jean taunted, pressing fingers against the fabric, rubbing. _I can tell you're wet._

Emma's eyes opened, pupils dilated and rimmed with pale blue. She pushed against Jean's fingers, bit her lip in response to Jean's taunt. _I'm not the one who's cheating on her husband, darling. Maybe you shouldn't call me names._

Jean pulled back and smacked Emma. Not hard enough to leave marks, but hard enough to feel satisfied. "But you like it," Jean said, removing her hand. She was straddling Emma now; limbs tangled together, Emma pressed back against the car door, breathing too fast. The windows were fogged up. _I know you do. You can't lie to me._

Emma's fingers were underneath Jean's shirt. Sliding up over Jean's back. Emma did this thing with her nails, dragged them down Jean's back like she was going to hurt her, but Emma never did it hard enough to leave marks. It was the promise of it that made it feel so good, maybe. Jean pressed her mouth to Emma's, again. Emma was aroused and trying to move, to press against something, anything.

Jean could feel it, inside, the power she'd used while flying. While twisting in the night sky. She let it burn, let it rush through her like sugar or adrenaline or the first buzz of too much tequila. Emma was struggling, trying to get away, still trapped beneath Jean's weight. Still aroused and afraid and _yes_--

The power spilled out, reaching towards Emma's fear and desire. Drinking it all up, with fingers pressed between Emma's legs, bringing her _so close_ and then stopping. Teasing. Jean listened, wanting to hear begging and _it_ wanted more, lust and desperation and humiliation. Jean knew she could do it, if she wanted. She'd done it before. Make Emma beg, that sin-soaked voice high and needy and desperate.

There were headlights in the distance. Coming towards them. Jean pulled away, flushed, realizing she'd forgotten about other people. She sat back, trembling. Looked at Emma, who was still sprawled against the door. Legs spread, shirt off--when had Jean done _that_?--bra pulled down but still on, displaying Emma's breast like some sort of pornographic picture in a magazine the kids were always trying to hide beneath their beds. Emma's pigtails were messy and only _just_ still in. Her mouth was slightly parted, eyes heavy-lidded.

Jean moved back to the driver's seat. She hid the car with her powers, so the approaching vehicle would keep going. She was breathing hard, hands on the steering wheel.

"I know where we're supposed to go," Jean said. Her voice sounded choked and tight. She closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she could see lingering traces of white fire. She could feel the echo of it, too, slithering around in her brain. Jean licked her lips, tasting Emma. Her nerves felt rubbed raw. She was tired. And something else, from touching Emma. But that didn't matter, not right now.

Jean tried not to look as Emma re-arranged her clothing. She didn't want to think about why she (couldn't) didn't. Emma pulled her hair out of the pigtails and shook it out. Jean started the car and headed back down the darkened street. It was nearly midnight. She focused on the road, on driving, the movements careful and measured.

She looked over, once, at Emma. Emma was looking out the window, and her face was hidden by her hair.

ooooooooOOOOooooooooo

Emma's hands were shaking. She tucked them in her lap, clenching them into fists. She could feel the bite of her nails against her skin. The pain was welcome. It gave her something to focus on besides the ache between her legs, the self-loathing rising like bile in her throat.

_Why do you let her do that, why do you pant like a bitch in heat when--_

Jean slowed the car. "There's the street. Make sure you remember it, for tomorrow." Jean kept driving. She didn't turn on the street, on the bloody road they'd been trying to find for _hours_. There was a mangled tree, obscuring the view of the street sign, itself bent and twisted and half-hidden by branches. Bloody tree. Stupid nature.

Emma opened her mouth to say something. She wasn't sure what. Something along the lines of _why the hell aren't you turning after the trouble we just went through to find it._ It wasn't about the trip, anymore, or being lost. It was never that simple.

"I thought we should stay in a hotel. It's too late. We'll just call them and tell them what happened, and that we'll be there tomorrow." Jean's voice was firm, determined. She slid a look at Emma that dared the other woman to disagree. With what had been, in essence, Emma's suggestion. How typical.

When they got to the hotel, Emma was going to take a long, hot shower. Very long. Hot enough to warm her suddenly chilled skin. Long and hot and full of steam, and she was going to tilt her head back and feel the water on her body and stand there as long as it took. To warm up.

She wondered if she would have her own room.

"Depends. Which do you want? One room or two?"

Jean's voice. A little teasing. Still fine-edged with anger. Jean was like a knife, all sharp curves and gleaming and deadly. Sheathed in some innocuous-looking covering, all pretty and bright, so everyone forget was underneath. Emma never forgot. Emma dug her nails in harder against her own skin, gave a little gasp at the pain. She was still aroused. Maybe more so, from the lash of pain curling low like heat in her stomach. God. She wanted to get out of the car.

"Whatever you prefer," Emma responded in answer, and watched Jean smile in the darkness. Emma put her hair back, in the low-slung pigtails. The lights were harsh and bright as Jean merged onto the interstate, bright white streetlights whizzing by in a blur of light, red taillights gleaming like demons in the distance. The twisting darkness lay behind them, with streets unnamed and unknown. There should be some relief in this, getting back to civilization, where things were clearly marked. Where things were bright and orderly and made sense.

Emma closed her eyes against the light.


End file.
